


in the garden

by nadia5803



Series: liaisons by nadia [10]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-19 06:47:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29622237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nadia5803/pseuds/nadia5803
Summary: agim visits the garden and cvetko revisits his namesake
Series: liaisons by nadia [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1631752
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	in the garden

It had often seemed most of Europe’s elite had become concentrated in tiny Schengen more frequently than their homelands. As such, everyone had found their place; a space that was theirs, an area to think, read, write, prepare. And, it seemed that Cvetko knew where Agim’s was. 

You’d think it would be the library. After all, aren’t writers attracted to the meters and meters of words and writing? Apparently not. Cvetko milled about in the confined space, bumping into first Laszlo, peering over some gardening books, then one Lorenzo, who gave him a long-winded lecture in the cookbook section. No, not the library. Cvetko was quite relieved to emerge into the fresh air, and enter the small courtyard, where Agim stood over an empty, unfinished pond, hands behind his back. 

His head was tilted to the sky. It was not a warm day, yet he seemed fine dressed in his overcoat and button down. Cvetko shivered, tugged at his collar, and cleared his throat. Agim turned to him, eyebrows raised. “You found me.”

“I thought you’d go to the library,” Cvetko said sheepishly, knees knocking.

Agim laughed, wooden, and shook his head. “No, much too stuffy. I prefer the flowers, my flower. Are there any flowers you enjoy?”

Cvetko scratched his head and surveyed the garden. Yes, there were flowers. Wildflowers and weeds, at the very least, overran the entire perimeter of the courtyard, devouring up a few of the untrimmed roses and shrubs. It was a shame. Whoever had landscaped it must have worked hard, but it seemed it was all unkept and overgrown. Then, at second glance, Cvetko noticed Agim’s hands were full of pulled weeds. “No,” Cvetko started, smiling. “I don’t know much about botany. My namesake is an unfitting one.”

“Did your parents expect you to be a gardener?” Agim asked, kneeling to the ground and removing some dandelions from the between cobble. 

Cvetko drew a circle in the dirt with his shoe. He could already hear Svetlana’s moaning and groaning over upkeep and presentability, but he relented, kneeling in the grass. “My sister, Anya, she picked my name.”

“So, then, did Anya hope you would be a little gardener?” Agim spun a severed dandelion in his fingers before tossing it over his shoulders.

“Don’t know. Never asked,” Cvetko replied with a shrug of his shoulders. He wouldn’t mention it to Agim, who seemed to be fawning over the surviving roses and tulips, that his namesake was some sort of curse. Flowers, forever the symbol of weakness and femininity, branded onto him like some awful prophecy. Agim, the wordsmith, would weave some sugary response about thorns, perseverance, and the historical significance of the flower, but Cvetko decided he would rather not mention it. “I don’t know the first thing about flowers. Or gardening,” he added, tilting his head to Agim.

Agim released the rose he was holding and sat down in the grass. “I lived in Pristina my whole childhood. You probably understand. All concrete. Not many flowers growing there. I don’t understand much of science, either, but I quite like them. They’re decorative. And pretty. Helpful, and innocent. We wouldn’t have honey without flowers. Or alcohol, if you think about it. A world without rakija is one I don’t want to live in,” he said with a grin. “So, yes, I have quite an affinity for flowers. It seems as if this garden has kind of collapsed in on itself, no?”

Cvetko nodded and flicked a dead tulip that swayed across from him.

“It just needs some TLC, Cvetko, as they say. Someone must trim the weeds and water the dirt and compost it, and then it will return to brilliant life.” 

“You have a pretty name,” Cvetko muttered, almost out of nowhere. 

Agim raised an eyebrow, and got to his feet. “I thought we had dropped that subject, flower.”

“I don’t know Albanian,” Cvetko then said, wiping the dried dirt from his pants. “But, Komnena once mentioned it to me. Your name means sunrise. Dawn. Rebirth. Now, isn’t that just beautiful? Your parents must have been wordsmiths too.” 

“And you have a pretty name, too,” Agim responded, flirtatious and grinning as he returned to pulling dandelions.

“I don’t,” Cvetko replied, unable to stop himself. He looked down, beginning to wipe the dust and smudges from his glasses.

Agim tossed another dandelion with a scoff. “You blockhead. Have I not just gone on a spiel about my love of the flower? I see. Yes, yes, I know. I don’t speak Serbian,” he said, imitating Cvetko’s falsetto, “but I know _cvet_ is flower. I assume you do not hate your namesake over your stupidity on the topic of science, but rather, oh...” Agim bent at the knees and folded his hands to his face, batting his eyelashes and sticking out his bottom lip in a pout. “Flowers are for girls!”

Cvetko turned red as a poppy and began to fiddle with the leaves on a shrub suffocated by ivy. “You’re mocking me.”

“Don’t be pathetic, flower. Your name is fine as it is. Your sister Anya chose well. Scoundrel,” he said, ruffling Cvetko’s hair and crossing to the other side of the garden. 

“Will you not pick up your weeds?” Cvetko asked incredulously. 

“No, I’m sure they will compost. Or something along those lines.” 

Cvetko giggled and rose back to his feet, scampering over to Agim. “What do you have?”

Agim turned back to him, holding up a dandelion, still seeding. It was white, soft, slim, delicately swaying in the wind. “Ah... make a wish, flower,” he said, handing it to Cvetko.

Cvetko held his breath, and, like a child, made his wish. _I wish for Agim to love me_. Then, he blew away the seeds, discarding the empty stem and watching it spin to the floor. “I am a child at heart.”

“No, just a child,” Agim said, hands on his hips. “That was a joke,” he added, seeing Cvetko’s cheeks go red again. “Here. Shall we go back inside, flower? I see you shivering. We can’t have you wilting.”

“Ah,” Cvetko blushed again, and began to fumble with his glasses. “Suave.”

“Mm. I see you’re a wordsmith yourself,” Agim teased, wandering towards the courtyard’s exit. 

“No, not quite. Not quite magnificent as you, at least,” he replied, bouncing after Agim and finding it hard to keep up with his long legs. 

Agim waved a hand. “You butter me up far too much for a political rival. Giving me too much confidence, flower, my goodness. Have you even read any of my works?”

Cvetko shook his head. “Cannot read Albanian,” he said sadly.

“So you praise me with empty flattery. How genial,” Agim yawned. “I shall find a translation for you.” 

“ _Merci_ ,” Cvetko responded, catching up to Agim with his hands in his pockets. “I’m not a reader, but I’ll gladly read your work.”

“Yes, I do see that. Little mathy flower. Why are you here, when you could be off doing algorithims or teaching a grade school class? Hm. Boring yourself with the affairs of the great nations. You’re absurd,” Agim fiddled with his tie and grinned down at Cvetko. “I usually find mathematicians such as yourself to be too self-satisfied. Do you give alms?”

“I give alms,” Cvetko said with a nod. “I am a religious man.”

“Oh, so you do fear God. Superb. Are you charitable to causes besides the Orthodox Church, flower?”

“Of course,” Cvetko said, sticking his hands in his pockets as Agim held the door for him. “Of course I am.”

The door shut behind them and a final gust of cold air washed in. “You shouldn’t lie about charitablity, Cvetko,” Agim replied sternly.

“I am not lying. I just told you, I am a man of God.”

“Certainly you are, flower.” Agim checked his watch. “Have a verse about the flowers? Did the Lord love flowers?”

“Yes, Peter 1:1-25. I went down to the nut orchard to look at the blossoms of the valley, to see whether the vines had budded, whether the pomegranates were in bloom,” Cvetko recited, feeling like he was back in Sunday School. 

“Goodness, you are pathetic, flower,” Agim replied with an incredulous gasp. “God-fearing plant. I shall see you this afternoon, correct?”

“C-Correct,” Cvetko stammered, his tiny hands clenched with a nod. “Yes, I will see you.”

“Hm. Very good. Goodbye, Cvetko,” Agim said with a wave, vanishing down the hallway.


End file.
